


Ocean Breathes Salty

by The Librarina (tears_of_nienna)



Category: Graceland (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 01:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/pseuds/The%20Librarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike doesn't sleep well anymore. A tag to 1x04, "Pizza Box."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ocean Breathes Salty

**Author's Note:**

> **Content warning:** Discussion of gore, some elements of PTSD.
> 
> Also, there was literally no way to summarize this fic that didn't make it sound like smut, but this one's gen, folks.

It's barely dawn when Briggs comes downstairs. Mike keeps his eyes on the file he's been pretending to scan for the last two hours; he hasn't absorbed a word.

"You're up early," Briggs says.

Good--at least he doesn't _look_ like he spent all night staring up at the ceiling, unable to close his eyes. "Yeah," he says absently.

"You doing okay?"

Mike waves a hand. "Oh, sure. Just watched a guy blow his brains out last night. I'm great."

Briggs claps a hand on Mike's shoulder; he flinches, and hates himself for it. 

"First one's always the hardest," Briggs says bracingly.

_First one_. Because there will be more.

On one level, Mike's always known that the job of an undercover agent isn't a pretty one. That, in order to put bad people in prison for good, undercovers have to see things, even do things, that no one ever should. If the most he has to sacrifice is his ability to sleep peacefully, he should count himself lucky.

But he never asked for this.

He never wanted to _be_ an undercover agent. He wanted a desk job, a place in the DC office where he could work his way up and into the administration. He's only here because the FBI doesn't trust Briggs anymore.

He can't help thinking--maybe he isn't cut out for field work; maybe there's some vital component that he's missing. The rest of Graceland's agents have been at it for much longer, and none of _them_ start hyperventilating when they see marinara sauce puddled on the counter. They even seem to be able to _sleep_.

"It was my gun," Mike says at last.

"Yeah, I know. They'll dump it with the body, so if you want it back..."

" _Jesus_ , no." His voice is too loud for the hour, echoing through the empty room.

Briggs frowns at him. "You're not actually feeling sorry for the guy, are you? Eddie was directly responsible for the deaths of _at least_ nine people, and there are probably more we don't know about. This was a win, Mikey."

"Yeah, but you don't have to see that _win_ splattered across your retinas every time you close your eyes," he snaps, his voice tight and brittle.

"True." Briggs sighs. "Look, I'm not gonna tell you how to feel about it. You know my opinion on shrinks."

Mike huffs out a hollow laugh. "Yeah, I know."

"But if you want my advice..."

Mike shakes his head. "Sure, what the hell--I'm desperate."

"Go surfing."

"What?"

"You heard me."

He sighs. "I can barely stay upright, you know that."

"Doesn't matter."

"And I'm not exactly in the mood."

"That doesn't matter, either," Briggs says. "Just sit out there and float, if you want. Think about it for a while, do what you gotta do, and then... let it go. Trust me on this--go put on your suit."

"Why?"

"Because when you're out there..." Briggs shrugs. "A little more salt water doesn't make any difference."


End file.
